


Ghost of a Smile

by MissBeiBauble



Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Best Friends, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Joker: Vigilante Route, Murder, Post-Episode 5: Same Stitch, Tags Contain Spoilers, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-03 21:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissBeiBauble/pseuds/MissBeiBauble
Summary: This wasn't supposed to happen.They weresupposedto see each other every other day, to work out the issues that lay between them. They weresupposedto help each other recover from what had happened that night that left them both with scars. And they weresupposedto rebuild their frayed friendship, and even maybe, just maybe, one day revisit Cafe Triste to appreciate all they'd been through and all that was to come.They hadplans.And in a single night those plans full of hope and promise were ripped apart, like the threads of a torn open stitch. What Bruce didn't realize, however, was that new ones were being made, and that their stitch would be rewoven with a thread stronger than death itself...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, and thanks for taking a chance on this little fic of mine! It was actually inspired by something vigilante Joker had said in ep 5, when chatting to Alfred as Bruce was patching himself up (ugh, that was so hard to watch). See if you can guess what it was! In any case, I really do hope you enjoy! ^.^

_“He didn’t fight back.”_

Why wasn’t he surprised by this?

_“He didn’t suffer long.”_

Now that was an outright lie.

_“We did all we could, Mr. Wayne.”_

_“…I’m so sorry.”_

It didn’t matter. None of it did, really. 

Not anymore.

 

<>

 

Bruce woke up with a start, instinctively jerking his limbs. His bonds kept them firmly in their uncomfortable place as a spasm of pain made him grimace.

He shook off the remains of the haunting words and images that had been plaguing his dreams and now apparently his unconsciousness as well. They wouldn’t help him get out of this situation. Then again, he wasn’t sure what would, seeing as he was seated in pitch darkness. His ankles were bound as well, keeping him from any sort of useful mobility. There was a tingling sensation in his extremities and somewhat of a fog in his head, seemingly aftereffects of whatever his captors had drugged him with. He thought he’d managed to send an alert via the comm link just before they’d knocked him out, but couldn’t be certain; he’d been a little preoccupied at the time. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed or where he was. At first glance, things weren’t looking all too hopeful, if he was being honest with himself.

He didn’t even know what his captors wanted, although it wouldn’t be hard to take a guess, he mused. As if summoned by the thought, there was the sound of a heavy, metallic door, although no light came in. Silence for a moment. Then suddenly the flame of a lighter revealed the face of a grotesque figure just inches before him. Bruce couldn’t help himself; he jumped. The figure – obviously wearing a mask – uttered a dark laugh before straightening.

“You are frightened,” it said. “You won’t be for long. You shall soon come to see the good your sacrifice will bring to this shallow realm.”

“What do you want?” Bruce demanded. The – man? – was talking nonsense, nothing that gave a clue to his identity or the identity of the gang of thugs that subdued Bruce in the dark parking lot of Arkham Asylum. He’d been trying to negotiate a proper burial for John instead of the unceremonious, unmarked grave that awaited his friend in a decrepit wooded corner of the asylum’s lot, with all the other unclaimed patients that perished within those padded walls. Now there was serious risk of putting Alfred in that same position for him, if help didn’t come soon.

The figure tilted his head, and suddenly there were two more of them on either side of the first, lit up by their own lighters, all staring at Bruce with that same hideous mask. 

They chanted in unison, “The Greater One desires your sacrifice this night of the sixth full moon.” 

The words unnerved Bruce somewhat; ‘sacrifice’ wasn’t exactly the best thing to hear when one was bound in a dark room against their will. 

Two more then revealed themselves. They stood in a half moon before him and repeated their words. Bruce began to strongly suspect their belonging to some kind of cult, what with the demonic masks and ominous gibberish. If that was the case, there was very little hope of reasoning with them. The first little tendril of true fear curled about his heart at the thought of what was in store for him if something didn’t change in his favor, and fast.

Without any visible cue the figures simultaneously pulled out wicked-looking knives. Some of them were silver and new, shining almost beautifully in the candlelight; others looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned from whatever they had been stuck into last, some dark substance peppering the blades. Bruce didn’t know if he preferred it to be rust, or dried blood.

The first figure muttered, “Now we carve the sacrificial flesh with the markings of the Greater One’s slaves…” He moved to stand behind Bruce as the others began to hum in a low tone. Bruce felt him grip his wrist and then there was a quick, sharp pain in his left palm, and he immediately felt the warmth of his blood trail down his fingers. The other figures had started lighting candles on the ground that circled his chair, and to Bruce’s dismay he could now make out the large rune directly beneath him, confirming his suspicions. 

Now he was facing the lead figure again, who held the knife sullied by his blood up to the corner of Bruce’s mouth. He kept very still, trying to ignore the taste of it, trying to figure some way of avoiding facial rearrangement, but he couldn’t _think_ , dammit, there were too little resources and he was too vulnerable in this position, where the hell was Alfred, the police, _somebody_ …

_John…_

One of the figures yelped, somewhat breaking the tension in the stuffy air. Bruce turned his head just enough to see that one of the candle flames on the ground had licked up the hem of the figure’s robe. Within a second they were practically engulfed in flame, as if they’d been doused in gasoline, and their screams followed them out the room. Bruce knew a golden opportunity when he saw one.

It took little effort for him to bite the blade of the knife at his lips and jerk his head to the side, tearing it out of the shaken leader’s grasp. He then threw himself with all of his force into the man, bringing them both down. Thankfully it was enough to stun the man as his head collided into the concrete floor, and Bruce took to smashing the wooden chair he was bound to into the ground as best as he could before the other cultists reached him. With his ankles tied there were few other options.

He could not only feel but also just see the legs of the chair begin to give way with every desperate smash, and, wondering where the sudden increase in light came from, he looked up to see the candleflames had evolved into long plumes of liquid fire, shooting up to brush the ceiling of the bunker. They barred the other figures from moving to subdue him, and among the now deafening sounds of the flames, Bruce could hear the faintest traces of…laughter…?

He gave one final blow, and the chair legs came loose, allowing him to stand with the support of the wall. Suddenly there was a slash at his arm; the leader must’ve gotten up and reacquired his knife while Bruce was working on the chair. The figure was going to attack again, but Bruce quickly readied for it, turning his back to him and raising his bound wrists. His captor inadvertently set him free with his next swipe.

 _Now_ Bruce had a fighting chance.

It took all of five seconds to fell the cultist; had it not been for their advantage of a sudden ambush, there was no way Bruce would’ve been overpowered by their strength alone. They were, unorthodox affiliations aside, just citizens, after all. He used the figure’s knife to cut the ties on his ankles, and now he was truly free. 

Before he made his getaway, he turned to check if the other cultists were still trapped by the flames that seemed to have a mind of their own. The figures were yelling and shouting, not daring to get too close to the bars of their fiery prison. There was little time to question just what was going on – the closest Bruce could assume was that their half-started little ritual had actually managed to summon something – but as long as it kept trouble off his back, he wouldn’t afford himself the luxury of pondering the why’s and how’s. Not now, anyway. 

Something caught his eye just as he turned his head back to the door. He thought he saw movement on the ground in the center of the painted rune, amid the flickering shadows. It was the pool of his blood. It looked disturbed, as if someone had recently dragged their fingers through it. Bruce knew it couldn’t have been one of the cultists, busied as they were in trying not to catch on fire. He narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to the rune; he was unnerved to realize that some kind of design had been drawn with his blood. He couldn’t quite make it out…

And then suddenly he could, and wished he had just ignored the whole damn thing.

He felt like he was suffocating, his throat tight, and he practically scrambled out the door. Almost immediately there was a set of narrow steps and he took them by twos, desperate for air that was nonexistent. After what felt like an eternity of climbing he almost collided with a door in the claustrophobic darkness, which he threw open with a force usually only reserved for anyone who would insult his mother.

After a few seconds of gulping lungfuls of fresh air he took in his surroundings. With his sight already being somewhat adjusted to the darkness, and the help of the full moon, it wasn’t difficult to tell that he was in the middle of a forest. It explained the bunker he’d just escaped from; there were more than a few of them scattered about in the patches of woods skirting Gotham, abandoned and generally now used for nefarious goings-on. One more thing to add to the list of improvements he was planning for the city, he thought grimly.

Of course, he would have to make it back _to_ the city if any of those plans were to take place. Bruce didn’t know how many other cultists were about, lurking in the trees, but he knew there had to be many more than the ones he’d left behind. He remembered being amazed by the sheer amount of them holding him down before they’d knocked him out. He would really have to be much more careful than he’d been so far, and about a thousand times quieter, if he was to find his way to civilization in one piece.

Which would be more than a little difficult even without the danger of being chased by knife-wielding psychos. The bastards had gotten rid of all the tech he’d had on him (which admittedly wasn’t much, as he was only running what should have been a simple errand), and he’d no idea where they’d taken him. There was no way of knowing how close he was to a phone, never mind the city. 

Bruce took a deep breath and let his mind work. There _was_ a way, thinking logically. He’d trained himself to withstand the majority of the effects most of those kinds of drugs induced, and he’d awoken already tied down where his captors wanted him to be, so based on that timing, he might be only twenty, thirty minutes away from the city; the odd thing was that it really seemed as though he were in the middle of nowhere, when he knew he should have been able to actually see and maybe even hear the city if he were truly so close. All he could hear now were the subtle noises of night creatures and the wind through the dying leaves. Things simply weren’t adding up, and a heavy unease wormed itself into his heart at the thought.

This whole experience was starting to feel like he’d inadvertently stepped into the twilight zone. He supposed his only option now was to look around and try to discern the general path his captors had taken to get here, and see if retracing that would get him anywhere helpful. 

A gust of chill air raised goosebumps as he began to move about, scanning the ground for clues as best as he could with limited vision. He didn’t progress much before the gash in his hand seized up, and he hissed quietly. He then raised it to his face in alarm as the pain escalated and felt as though it were being pulled open further, invisible fingers digging into the raw flesh. Bruce’s eyes widened with incredulity as he watched the blood flow steadily out of the wound again when it had begun to coagulate. He definitely had to wrap it with something now, or it’d get infected in no time. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as whispers carried on the wind seemed to linger by his ear. He ignored them as best as he could and tore off his sleeve. He’d just began wrapping his shaking hand with it when the wind suddenly picked up, and with a shriek that could’ve just as easily been human as it was natural, his makeshift bandage was out of his grasp and flung far into the brush.

He cursed.

As he debated whether to track it down or tear off his other sleeve, a noise (it was not a giggle, it was _not_ ) made him snap his attention to the right. There was nothing immediate to see. Keeping his injured hand to his chest, he silently moved closer, senses heightened and on the alert. The sound seemed to come from a tree about ten feet off, and as he neared it he readied for someone to leap out at him from behind its trunk. No one did – no one was there.

After confirming this, his attention was immediately caught by a little patch of some kind of substance gleaming on the bark of the tree at shoulder level. Bruce tapped a finger to it, a dreading suspicion in the back of his mind that it wasn’t tree sap. 

It wasn’t. His finger came away red; the blood was warm and fresh.

Bruce steeled himself against the shudder that threatened to overtake him so that he could concentrate on what was important, namely being that the blood had been smeared over a small fragment of dark cloth snagged into the bark. A wave of hope and relief went through him at the sight; despite the bizarre way he’d come to this finding, it certainly encouraged the thought that he would make it out of here following the path of the cultists. As he began to continue in the general direction the cloth provided him, he was able to notice other small clues in the surroundings to suggest that this was indeed the way they’d come. 

The next half hour was spent picking his way through the wilderness, following the somewhat linear trail his captors had left, all the while being as quiet as possible when treading through dead leaves and branches. Anytime he thought his wound was beginning to heal, it would suddenly flare up and start bleeding again, worrying him considerably. There were three or four occasions when he was spotted by a wandering cultist, but strangely, they never posed even a remote problem. Each time, as soon as they started for him, they would either take a nasty fall long before reaching him, or – even stranger – get a closer look at him just before turning right around and running as if Death itself was at their heels. Bruce’s feeling that something wasn’t right that night was no longer just a feeling – it was a certainty. He kept onwards, though, wanting nothing more than to return to the relative normalcy of Gotham, get to bed, and sleep for at least a week straight.

If only John’s death wasn’t haunting even the few hours’ of sporadic sleep he got now. As much as he hated the nightmares, though, Bruce just couldn’t shake off the irrational thought that they were the only connection he had left with his closest friend, and that once they eventually faded away…so, too, would the stitch.

And Bruce would sooner wander these unnatural woods forever than let that happen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just a heads-up, the rest of this little story has got more of an angsty flavor than spooky, just because...look, this thing basically wrote itself and I had little say in what direction it went, so...hope you're still up for it! ^^'

_“Visitor for Jon Doe.”_

_The green-haired man sat up quickly, a brief look of confusion on his gaunt features before elation took its place. He got to his feet with eyes to the door as it opened._

_And then the blood drained from his face, leaving it as white as a corpse. He stumbled back._

_The door slammed shut behind her with the same note of finality as a nail on the lid of a coffin. “Hiya, Puddin’!”_

_Harley Quinn sauntered into the little cell that John had called home for years. She held her hands behind her back._

_“Betcha thought you’d never see me again, huh?” Her soprano voice was sickeningly sweet as she continued to take slow steps towards the man that betrayed her._

_John bumped against the little dresser in his haste to put distance between him and his love turned enemy. His picture with Batman toppled to the floor, cracking the glass._

_It didn’t take long for John’s back to hit the wall. “H-Harley!” he cried, a tangle of fear and joy and bitterness tainting the tone of his fumbling words. “How – h-how did you get in here?!” He had his hands raised defensively. He was shaking._

_Harley laughed good-naturedly. “Aw, I thought you’d be glad to see me, baby! After all, this is where we first met, a lifetime ago.” She suddenly shot out her hand like a cobra strike to grip John’s throat. There was a smile in her voice as she cooed, “What better place to end things than here?”_

_Her other hand rammed the head of her mallet into John’s gut with a force that would’ve brought him to his knees were she not holding him up. She let go just to activate the mallet’s electricity, its current ripping through him with bright blue flickers of light. He just barely managed to keep himself upright by bracing against the dresser, coughing and gasping for air. Harley watched him and chuckled with disgusting fondness for a moment before her favorite weapon connected sharply with the side of his head, slamming him into the ground._

_He didn’t move for a long moment. Finally he stirred, slowly turning himself over to meet the rage in her eyes. With a growl she let the hammer slip from her hand and forcefully straddled him, pinning his wrists down. She was leaning in so close the strands of her hair brushed his face._

_“You do know I coulda easily snuffed outcha lights then and there, don’t ya, Pud?” she breathed harshly. “But I didn’t. Know why?”_

_John blinked, clearly more than a little dazed from the blow. But then he gave a shaky smile that didn’t come near to reaching his eyes as he rasped, “T-Too fast…too easy, for someone, s-someone you…” he swallowed, “loathe, as much – a-a-as much as you loathe me.” A painful giggle escaped him that was equal parts nervous and resigned._

_Harley hummed in approval, releasing his wrists to applaud mockingly. “Good boy! Ah-ah-ah –” Suddenly she had his throat in her grip once again at the mere twitch of his hands. “You play along nicely, and I might consider keeping this short.”_

_John stilled._

_“That’s right. You know when I mean business, huh, Puddin’? You always did, ever since – well gosh – right from the start. You really did know me so well…” Her voice dropped, then, low and guttural. With staggering speed she slipped out a knife and raised it high above them. “Well enough to LIE to my face” – she plunged the blade down hard into his shoulder – “TRICK me into trusting you” – now into his side – “and then BETRAY me when I needed you most.” The final blow sunk deep into his sternum, right up to the hilt of the blade._

_Beneath her grasp John could only choke out a grunt with each stab, eyes squeezed shut as he writhed with agony. Dark blood began to well from his wounds and spill over. With obvious pleasure, Harley then wrenched the knife out of his chest, and his strangled scream filled the room._

_“And all for what? We coulda had something, Jon,” she said in a tone pulsating with resentment. “It could’ve been you n’ me, against THEM, all the sons’a bitches that want us put away for good. But you threw it all away…for HIM.” She spat the last word out. “You and that goddamn Bruce Wayne ruined my life…so now, I figure it’s only fair I repay the favor.”_

_A dark laugh as she walked two fingers up his jaw, the blood they trailed stark against his ashen skin. “Anything to say to that, Jon? Maybe some last words for him? Your favorite pal Brucie? We wouldn’t want there to be anythin’ left unsaid betweens ya, the dynamic duo of Gotham.”_

_John’s gaze desperately flitted across the ceiling of the room until it landed on the security camera in the corner. He stared directly into the lens, deep into the soul of whoever was on the other side. “I-I guess – ghk – I guess, there’s not…not much to say, except…”_

_A soft, ever so affectionate smile struggled against the pain tightening his features._

_“…Except goodbye, Bruce Wayne. Until next time.”_

_Harley snarled at his words and struck him across the face. “You sorry bastard. You shoulda used the chance I gave ya to beg me for mercy. But you want to take that away from me too, don’t ya? Well…we’ll just see how long your little bravery act lasts,” she sneered. Then with a snap of her fingers she continued, “Oh! Gosh, I almost forgot to tells ya, Pud. Just a lil’ something I thought you oughtta know before ya bite the dust…”_

_She leaned in closer than before, close enough to put her lips to his ear for a moment. Her whispered words were muffled. Then she pulled away with gleeful laughter._

_John simply looked up at her with a tired, blank expression, fading at the same alarming rate the pool of his blood was growing. With a final low chuckle, Harley brought the tip of her blade to the corner of his lips…and began to tug upwards._

_“Now, how’s about one last BIG smile for your best buddy Brucie?”_

//////

Bruce stopped the footage then. He’d already witnessed what that monster did to John’s face, the first time he was shown the security tape. 

_…long, ragged incisions that curled up and back until they reached his friend’s ears, spilling sheets of blood down his face out of an everlasting grimace…_

Needless to say it’d been added to the long compilation of images Bruce would never be able to forget for as long as he lived.

He gave a deep, exhausted sigh as he leaned back in his chair. The bedroom was completely dark save for the light of his tablet screen. He’d been unable to stay in bed any longer, but now he wondered if reviewing John’s death tape was really a better alternative. It wasn’t exactly conducive to a good night’s rest. He knew, though, that despite that, he still would’ve made himself watch it yet again; especially since the strange events he’d gone through only the previous night. He couldn’t help but feel it was all connected, if he could just work through some of the confusion his muddled mind held on to.

One of the sources of confusion being, for instance, how the hell he’d managed to get back home from that damned forest. If he were to rely solely on his memories, he wouldn’t have an answer, as he only remembered retracing the kidnappers’ steps through the brush so far until a wave of dizziness hit him, and then – nothing. Next thing he was aware of was being in the passenger seat of his car, with his butler driving them back to the manor. According to Alfred, once Bruce’s communications had been abruptly disconnected without reason or warning, he alerted the GCPD and then went to search for him. After a few hours of weaving the streets of Gotham, he suddenly received a single tracking point on the car’s GPS, and it led him right to the very edge of the city limits. There he finally found Bruce lying face down on the grass, alone.

Bruce frowned in thought. Could it be that whatever his captors had drugged him with was stronger than he’d anticipated? Was it really possible that he’d hallucinated the whole ‘almost sacrificed to a demon’ nightmare? 

He gently flexed his hand, careful of the long row of stitches across his palm. The wound he sustained was really the only proof he had that any of what he experienced was real. That, and the all too vivid image burned into his mind of what he saw drawn with his blood on that rune.

Of course, it wasn’t the drawing itself that had spooked him out of his wits, just as it isn’t the dark people are afraid of; they are afraid of what lurks _in_ the dark.

Bruce was afraid of what the bloody, all-too-familiar scribbled clown face hid behind its sharp-toothed grin. He had never seen that grin, drawn in that exact style, at any other time except…

Except whenever John was around. It was as good as marking his territory, as the bat symbol served for Bruce. 

The laughter he had heard in the forest, too, rang familiar and drew up flashes of memories he’d shared with his closest friend. 

Bruce now began to view each unexplained piece of that eerie night as though looking through a lens he previously wouldn’t have considered using, its glass tainting the events a darker, more…unearthly color. The behavior of the flames, the laughter in the wind, the blood on the tree… The fear of the cultists…

A slight shiver went through him. On a whim, on base instinct, (out of a grief so deep it hurt) he said quietly into the empty room, “…John?”

Silence. He sighed, berating himself for letting a faint spark of hope speed up his heart. He didn’t even know what he expected. 

“I’m more sleep-deprived than I thought,” he muttered wryly. He brought the heels of his hands to press against his eyes before his stitches reminded him it wasn’t a good idea. Bruce looked at the injured hand, then, a hesitant thought coming to the surface. He pursed his lips.

“John…Joker…if you’re around, I’d…” A quick tug on the end of the wire of his stitches. A bit of blood began to well from the slit. He sighed, “…Well, I would just really want to know.”

Ten seconds passed. Bruce waited, barely breathing, straining to hear any new sounds.

The first of which came from himself as he hissed in sudden pain, struggling to keep his hand steady while he watched _something_ pull at the stitches there. The blood came a bit faster now. Bruce stood abruptly and looked about himself, only seeing the faint outlines of the furniture.

Another jolt of pain radiated from his hand. He made a sound of annoyance and blurted unthinkingly, “That’s enough, John, I need that to heal!”

“Sorry, buddy!”

Bruce whirled, already in a fighting stance. He felt his jaw go slack at the man standing before him, then, and all thoughts of fighting fled from his mind to make room for the tidal wave of shock.

_“John…?!”_

It was, without a doubt, his best friend. There were some major changes to his appearance – Bruce supposed being dead would do that to a man – but enough was the same that he couldn’t stop the huge, painfully relieved smile he felt spread across his face. When John reciprocated with just as much enthusiasm, Bruce just didn’t know what to do with the flood of emotions hitting him with the force of a punch from Bane; he instinctively rushed forward with open arms.

He of course hugged nothing but air, although he heard his friend’s voice in his ear, “Bruce! Ohh, buddy, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you! What – what’s it been?” John stepped back to look up into Bruce’s eyes somewhat sheepishly. “It’s, uh, i-it’s kinda hard to tell now.”

Bruce gave a little laugh mostly fueled by excess joy and replied immediately, “One week, four days, and seven hours.”

John’s sunken eyes widened. Now it was Bruce’s turn to look sheepish.

“Wow…” John murmured. His haggard features became distant. “Seemed longer than that…”

“Yeah…I know,” Bruce said quietly. He couldn’t stop staring at his friend, horribly afraid that he’d blink and he would be gone again. The fact that his suspicions had been confirmed – that the _ghost of his friend_ was right there, speaking to him, defying all logic – didn’t faze him as much as much as he thought it should. He felt rather at ease with the idea, if he was being honest with himself.

Once the initial shock had subsided he was able to notice that John really did, fittingly, look like death warmed over. He was as white as all the classic ghosts were depicted, and lazy tendrils of what looked like smoke bled from the edges of John’s figure, dissipating into the air. Bruce could see the rips in his clothes where Harley had stabbed him, and the wounds there had become dark, gaping holes that seeped an inky mist. Oddly enough, John seemed to have blood on his hands, still slick. Fresh.

Despite all that, the hardest by far to look at was his face. Bruce felt his heart pound with fury at the sight of the extensive mutilation John had suffered. What Harley had done to him…

His heart felt as though it skidded to a stop before going again. It would’ve been the same thing the cultists planned on doing to him, he thought, with the way they had the knife to his lips. John intervened just before they could follow through. 

“That was you, wasn’t it?” Bruce suddenly asked the specter. “Last night, in that weird forest?”

John had been studying Bruce as well, taking him in as though seeing him for the first time in many years. The question drew his attention back somewhat.

“Huh? Last night…it seemed like ages ago.” He spoke softly, as though to himself, going through the familiar motion of rubbing the back of his neck. Bruce wondered if he even felt himself doing it. “But, ah, yeah,” John confirmed a bit louder with a childlike smile. “Surprised myself, actually. Didn’t know I was able to, uh, you know…make contact, at all. I-I-I had tried, before, when I first realized that I was still – _here_ , but, no dice.”

Bruce took a step closer to him, his expression pleading. “John…tell me _everything_ ,” he told him in a gentle yet urgent tone. He’d no idea how long they had before whatever forces were at work giving them this priceless chance would turn against their favor, and then he’d be alone, left to mourn all over again. 

John was quick to tune in to his friend’s fear with one glance at his face, and his features softened as understanding settled in him. He offered a half smile, saying, “Okay, buddy.” He then began to silently pace as he began. “Well, to be honest, I never really felt the moment when it all…ended. At some point I opened my eyes, and –” John froze as a ripple ran through him, fading him in and out of sight. When it passed, he swallowed and whispered, “S-S- _She_ was just standing over me. There was this look on her face…I remember, it was the same one s-she had when she was escaping the facility with the virus. The perfect picture of satisfaction.” He huffed a humorless little laugh. “Who knows – how many times, s-she’d gone over _just_ how she’d exact her revenge on me, before she was finally given the chance to do it for real. I wonder if it played out as she imagined it would…?” He trailed off, voice faraway, expression distant once again. 

Bruce watched him with more than a little concern, trying to push down the hatred that swelled within him at the idea of that woman being _satisfied_ with her work. John seemed to exude exhaustion, as if he were completely drained from all that he’d gone through. This wouldn’t normally surprise Bruce in the least, were his friend still among the living. Seeing as he decidedly _wasn’t_ , Bruce couldn’t help but wonder how John could be affected by something as mortal as exhaustion; would it have something to do with the way he’d had lost his life? Being the ghost of someone violently murdered surely couldn’t be good for the state of mind, especially if it had already been in a precarious place before. 

Bruce was almost desperately curious as to the physics of the whole thing, but for answers, he’d need John to stay on track with his experience. He didn’t want him lingering on what must have been utterly traumatizing moments, anyway.

“So...” he prompted, “when you did realize that, uh, you were…what you are now, did you just…wander around, until you found me?”

It took a minute for John to tear himself away from his inner thoughts in order to answer. “Well, I couldn’t exactly move around freely, per se. It felt like I was…anchored, to wherever my body was. Wherever they carted it off, I felt compelled to follow. Quickly learned that it really hurt if I lagged behind…” He scoffed. “And I always thought being dead entailed a lack of _feeling_ anything. Oh, but I _could_ go through walls and stuff!” he added with a happy grin. “So that was pretty cool.” 

Bruce chuckled, relieved to see his friend’s childish side was still alive and well, even in death. The grim fact was, so was his ability to feel pain, much to Bruce’s anxiety.

John then gazed, deep and earnest, into Bruce’s eyes. With the reverence in his voice that was seemingly reserved only for Bruce, he said, “It was when you came to see me in the morgue, when I could finally leave myself behind. I was just standing there, staring at my covered corpse, when – I heard your voice. E-Even before that, I got a, a sort of _sense_ of you…that you were close. I turned, and I saw you, saw you coming towards me, and – and I just thought…” His voice dropped to a mournful note. “…I don’t want to lose you. I wasn’t ready to lose you, to never see you again, I…”

He sighed, dismal. “Everything I ever had, was gone before I was. I didn’t have anything to look forward to except – well, _you_. Those fantastic days when you’d visit, and we’d talk, or just be in each other’s company… W-When I saw you that day, you looked – so, _so_ upset, just –” Another of those shivers went through him, his expression deeply distressed. “I’ve never seen anyone, look as – _heartbroken_ – as you did just then, when you were looking down on my messed-up face. In that moment I decided – I _knew_ , that couldn’t be how it ended.” He gestured to himself with a thumb as he added, “Not while I have any say in the matter.”

Bruce was at a loss for words, stunned into a silence that John rushed to fill in his eagerness to explain.

“So I-I followed you, trying to get your attention in any way I could, so, so you would know I was still around – so you wouldn’t have to feel sad anymore, but…” He shut his eyes and growled softly in frustration. “It was so hard just, just to _concentrate_ , I could hardly tell where we were, or what anyone was saying, there were – lots, of blackout periods. The only thing I could really focus on was at least making sure I stuck to your side, so that, maybe one day I’d have the strength – to really make you _see me_ … But boy, was it hard even doing just that,” he said with a shrug and an abashed little laugh.

Bruce’s brows creased as he asked, “You were in pain, then?”

“Yeah, sort of like, I was being constricted…” John’s hands clenched into fists, portraying the feeling he described. “…like when you dive too deep into the darkest parts of the ocean…” he said slowly, a waver in his voice. He giggled a bit.

“Does it…still feel that way?” Bruce asked, unsure of what he could do if the answer was ‘yes’.

John clasped his hands and smiled, “Well, that’s where the story gets _interesting_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Ahaha. No. I overestimated how much I wanted to put into this story, so, I just split what would've been one huge chapter into two normal ones. The next one, then, should be posted tomorrow (on Halloween, woo!). As always, thank you so much for reading, and your comments give me life!! <3
> 
> *By the way, had to mention, John's facial mutilation was inspired by the Joker's Glasgow smile from the Dark Knight movie trilogy (Heath Ledger's Joker is my favorite right after Telltale's ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, the last little part to wrap things up; and just in time for Halloween! Enjoy!!

John resumed his pacing and went on with his tale, “So I’m barely aware of what’s going on around us, right, when suddenly –” he stopped and waved his hands with his next words, unsettling smile broadening, “ – heeeeeere’s _Johnny!_ Before I knew it everything snapped into place, giving me a clear view of what was about to go down, and buddy, I did _not_. _Like it_.”

This must’ve been just after the lead cultist had slit his palm, Bruce thought. Then that candleflame had practically consumed one of the robed figures…

John continued with glee. “It didn’t take long for the Joker to snatch up the reigns, then. I really can’t explain how I did any of what I did, I just – rode with what came naturally to me. All that was running around in my head was _stop them, save Bruce, stop them, save Bruce_ ,” he chanted in a mock voice. Then he murmured, thoughts turning inwards again, “Thinking back, those moments, while so clear in some places, are really fuzzy in others…”

Bruce blinked several times. He wished he could put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, as he did back when…well. Instead he simply said, “You saved my life, John.” He shook his head in utter incredulity. “ _Again_. If it weren’t for you, I’d be…”

“On the other side with me,” John finished with a sardonic smile. He then laughed, and Bruce had to join quietly.

“So, do you think it was…the fact that I was bleeding, that sort of woke you up?” he asked, nodding at his injured hand. He suspected as much, given what he’d seen for himself in those woods.

John stared at the stitches in Bruce’s palm as he spoke. “It was the first thing I noticed, when the darkness faded, and I could really think again.” His eyes glazed over slightly, and it was clear he wasn’t present in the room anymore. “Seeing them hurt you…seeing your blood drip slowly down your hand, hearing it spatter on the floor, so bright and red…” He sucked in a breath and raised his own hands, taking in what Bruce assumed was his own blood painted on his fingers. “It practically called my name. I felt so, so very _alive_ , then, Bruce. Like _nothing_ could keep me from doing what I wanted.” He giggled then, “A-And, at that moment, I wanted to stop those maniacs from hurting MY Batman.”

Bruce nodded slowly. From what he understood, it sounded like the shedding of his blood acted as a sort of summons to John’s spirit, for reasons he didn’t feel too inclined to delve into at that moment. A cacophony of emotions flitted about his head at the idea, ranging from revulsion to something as strange as pride, but the strongest of them all was the hopefulness that he wouldn’t be robbed of his tie with John. That not even death could break that all important stitch, keeping them bound together in spite of whatever they may go through.

“’Course, once your hand stopped bleeding, I started to slip back into just being – half there. But since you weren’t really in danger anymore, I felt…okay with it. I was just so happy to finally cause some disturbance in the real world,” John beamed, drawing Bruce from his thoughts. “Even if it was just a teensy bit… Oh, but did you see their _faces_?”

“The cultists in the woods…” Bruce trailed, remembering how the ones who hadn’t fallen, instead cowered from his sight and ran. It dawned on him now that it hadn’t been the sight of _him_ that struck them with such terror.

John snickered at the memory. “I don’t remember much, but those looks of abject terror, I mean…wow! Do I really look so bad?” he asked with a wide grin, accentuating the horrifying wounds on his face and giving Bruce every reason imaginable to respond with a resounding positive.

Instead Bruce shrugged and said, “Honestly, I’ve seen worse.” John raised a skeptical brow, prompting him to add begrudgingly, “…but not much.” He couldn’t help the small smile on his face despite everything. John laughed again.

Soon, though, he became somber, letting that weariness that clung to the edges of his aura close in. He began to speak hesitatively, “Look, there’s…t-there’s something, I don’t think you’re aware of. H-Harley, she – she told me, just before –” He struggled with his words, shaking his head. 

_Just a lil’ somethin’ I thought you oughtta know before ya bite the dust…_

Bruce’s eyes widened as he remembered watching the security footage the first few times, and wishing with deepest frustration that the camera had picked up just what it was Harley had whispered to his friend before initiating her torture. 

“You can tell me, John,” Bruce said soothingly, trying to catch his downcast gaze. Whatever it was that she’d said, he needed John to know that for as long as he was around, Bruce would be there for him. He knew comforting others wasn’t exactly his strong suit, but he would try his best regardless. Seeing John in such a low emotional state always drew out an urge to _protect_ that was difficult to ignore.

John finally sighed. “Y-You know, it doesn’t even, really matter anymore. What’s done…is done,” he said, spreading his hands. His voice was nonchalant, but strained. “Nothing to go crazy about. It’s…more of a cautionary note, than anything else, now. F-For you.”

“John –”

“And especially now that I’m not a real threat to anyone, let alone to _her_ – I mean, she got what wanted, it’s not like –”

“John, _who_ –”

“Ohhh, Bruce, don’t you _see_?” he hissed sharply, a sudden fury radiating in his eyes that was mingled with hurt. “Waller was behind everything!”

Bruce was again silenced in shock, staring at his friend. The anger in John’s face had melted away after his revelation, and he now just looked resigned.

“Waller was the one who pulled any strings she had to, in order to give Harley – the revenge she craved,” he quietly explained further, “because after the stunt I pulled with kidnapping and accusing her of Riddler’s murder, now Waller craved vengeance, too. She was just a little more subtle about it.”

Bruce had subconsciously began shaking his head with slow disbelief. “How…how can you be sure about any of this? You’d trust Harley’s word?”

John’s smile was grim. “I trust what I’ve learned about her during all our time working together in the Pact…enough to know, she was _not_ lying about being sent by Waller. I’m certain of that.” He shrugged. “And about Waller having it out for me, it doesn’t take a psychoanalyst, to gather that. Why else would she give someone she knows is unstable and hellbent on my destruction, the ability to reach me in my cell in the asylum, where I’m no longer even a threat? Allowing Harley access to murder me…” His hand hovered over the hole in his chest. “…could be nothing _but_ personal, Bruce.”

Bruce was blinking rapidly now, scrambling for an explanation, because _no_ , it couldn’t be. The Agency had moved on, taking Waller and her poisonous ways with it. He’d made it very clear to her that there was to be no more involvement from them in his city. Very, _very_ clear. 

There was just no way John’s death had been some secret long-distance _assignment_ she’d given one of her newest ‘agents’… Even she wouldn’t stoop so low. 

Or so he hoped. “There’s no evidence that leads to the Agency, nothing that suggests Harley wasn’t working alone. She just used her old credentials and bribed the guards –”

John laughed bitterly, “I think we both know – as good as she is – not even Harley Quinn, could slip by that much security, working alone.”

Bruce’s mind was racing. He’d been so wracked with grief, mourning the death of his friend, that it didn’t occur to him to investigate said death on a deeper level than the GCPD had managed. It had been enough for him to see Harley undergo a proper trial and sentence. He’d never thought to consider other suspects, _especially_ the one other person who had the motive – and the _means_ , dammit – to have John killed. Bruce supposed it was because he’d thought of Waller as a professional, for reasons he now seriously questioned.

As things finally began to click into place, Bruce’s rage towards the head of the Agency – towards himself for not seeing it sooner – became more and more adamant, until he was positively seething. He had to pace as an alternative to punching through the wall of his room, thoughts continuing to churn like the ominous clouds of an incoming storm. John’s nervous gaze followed him.

“I…I-I-I guess the lesson here is, never trust an Agency pig, to keep their word,” he said. He watched his friend a little longer. “L-Like I said before, there really isn’t any need to get – _upset_ , over this, seeing how it won’t change what’s already been done.”

Bruce stopped short and looked at him, eyes narrowed in bemusement. “I would think you of all people should have the right to get upset over all this.” He was reminded how enraged John had become over merely being _accused_ of murder, and now that he’d actually been murdered… “Don’t you want justice? Why aren’t you mad about this?”

A weak flash of anger came and went through John’s face before leaving him with the look of a whipped dog. “…I am so very mad…” he whispered, “…but I’ve since learned, what happens when – I lose myself to it.” He looked up at Bruce beseechingly. “I don’t ever want things to come that point again. The last time I thought I could bring justice against Waller, it cost me everything.” A beat. “Even you. I know there's not much else that can happen to me now, but - I can't help but _worry_ -"

Bruce stepped closer to his friend, holding back the instinct to grasp his arm reassuringly. “I won’t let that happen again, John,” he told him in what John had called his ‘stern father’ voice a lifetime ago. “It’ll be different this time. We’ll do things in such a way that Waller will have no choice but to face the justice she deserves in a court of law. And we’ll do it together.” He gave a little half smile. “You’re following me around anyway, aren’t you? Haunting me?” The stunted conversation Joker had had with Alfred while he waited for Bruce to patch himself up ran through his mind, then.

John mirrored the expression and giggled, “So I am.” He then looked off to the side as he spoke, “I guess – w-with your impressive detective skills and all – we might be able to find enough proof, to really have a chance of bringing her down. That’s – kinda what I was missing, when I tried. Probably because I was dead wrong…” he mumbled to himself. “But really, even _you_ were taken completely by surprise when that Tiffany girl –”

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you in or not?”

“Oh! Y-Yeah, but, I don’t know if I can – stick around enough to, uh, actually _do_ anything…” he said helplessly as he gestured to his form.

Bruce hadn’t even noticed, what with the weight of their conversation, that his friend was almost completely faded away now; the blood on Bruce’s palm had long since dried. After everything he’d learned in such a short time he’d almost forgotten he was conversing with a ghost, who had previously been unable to manifest himself physically…unless Bruce was bleeding.

He pursed his lips. “I’ll think of something, don’t worry. Until then, just…keep staying close. We’re going to make this work. Alright?”

John’s grin was heavy with fatigue. “You know, I wonder if it’s still called ‘haunting’ if the person actually wants the ghost around…”

Bruce sighed with fond exasperation. “Alright, John?”

His friend giggled before giving him a thumbs up. “Yeah…you got it, buddy.” Bruce could only just see John’s face now; everything else had vanished into the darkness.

He smiled through the pain of watching his best friend go as he said, “We’re a team in this, John. I’ll see you again really soon.” Holding up his littlest finger, he added sincerely, “I pinky swear.”

That earned him a wide, happy grin that was gone too soon.

 _Until next time_ , Bruce heard by his ear. Then he felt the slightest breath of pressure about his pinky finger.

His smile grew. This wasn’t the end, as he so deeply feared as soon as word of John’s death reached him. Their stitch was intact – stronger, even, now that one of the two threads was no longer of mortal material. They would work together to bring fair justice to the person who came so close to ruining their lives. They would know some peace, then. And after that…well.

This wasn’t the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I could only work on this thing at night, so if it turned out more than a little wonky in the light of day, many apologies. Oh, and for those of you who guessed the inspiration for the story came from Vigilante Joker's ep 5 quote, "I know, if _I_ were a ghost, I'd certainly haunt this guy," then you'd be right! Thank you all so much for reading, it means the world to me! 
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN! :D

**Author's Note:**

> ...Okay, so I was also just a leetle inspired by the fact that Halloween is like five minutes away...
> 
> Anyway, I hadn't been able to write a word for, like, months, so I hope what I was able to crank out here is at least readable, heh heh. I'm expecting to tack just one more chapter to it, wasn't supposed to be a huge saga or anything. Comments are always appreciated! Thank you so, so much for reading!!


End file.
